Everything Happens For A Reason
by Denim12
Summary: I had a life once, you know. A normal life. The life that made you anxious on the simplest thought about your future even when you knew you were still too young to even have it all figured out yet. The life that had you constantly complaining because you hated getting up for school because you hated book work. Now, everything has changed. And I'm not sure how much of it I can take.


**DISCLAIMER**

I do not own TEKKEN or any of the characters that originate from TEKKEN.

I only own my OC. 

**Chapter 1**

 _"It'll all be worth it..."_

I stood in dull lighting staring inexpressibly at the doors that were before me, confined within the four walls that separated the rest of the world and I.

It was quiet in spite of the muffling sounds from beyond.

Preparing for the fight that I had waited two consecutive years of intense and vigorous training for, mentally, emotionally, and physically, I took one last deep, composing breath.

Inhaling then exhaling.

Recollecting previous memories, one in particular, that bestowed the very purpose of my presence being here, and no matter the aftermath, if I were to live or if I were to die it would all be worth it. You can call it desperate, and maybe I am. But the least that I ask for are answers, and I will not stop at any cost until I get them whether they are what I want to hear or not, I'm not asking for much. 

Then, with a sudden rumbling sound light begun to pour its way through the cracks of the gigantic, doubled-ironed doors and my eyes slowly opened as my head lifted like I had accepted my fate, and I did.

I was greeted by an impatient, anxious, blood-thirsty crowd that filled the entire arena from the outside-in, all awaiting not only mine but my opponent's advent, and I stood there feeling a familiar sensation like I was where I was supposed to be.

And it seemed I had become quite fond of the feeling.

Upon the opposite end from where I stood I finally saw him in the distance, and the world had become once again of unimportance as my attention focused entirely on him.

 _Don't bail on me this time._

He walked so nonchalantly with yet an aura that was not only intimidating but familiar. For a very peculiar reason I felt like I knew him but just the slightest idea of that seemed foolish, I mean, despite how concealed his face was nothing about his appearance seemed familiar to me at all, not as far as I could recall but the feeling like I knew him was intense, strong. Almost like an intuition when you know something from instinctive feelings.

 _Maybe it's getting to my head. Maybe this is all becoming too overwhelming._

Well, whatever was going on I had to shrug it off.

It is very unlike me to become uneasy and as much as I hated to admit it I knew I was. Although I wonder if he knew, or if anybody else who stood in the crowd or watched the show live at home knew how anxious I was feeling. I sure hope not, especially being one who deems uneasy emotions to be weak, and if that's the case then I need to pull myself together. 

After making our way down our aisles' and to the centre of the arena where the fighting ring was propped we stood precisely opposite each other with a fair amount of distance between us. I took this time to study him but nothing about him seemed to ring a bell.

 _Why the hell do I feel like I know him?_

He wore a black, traditional japanese straw hat with a black, fitted half-face mask, and the combination of the pair disguised his face so well. His torso was covered by a black, compressed turtleneck fleece made out of spandex material with full sleeves and padding in the arms, the chest and abdominal area enhancing his large, muscular build so as to act as a light shield of a kind. He wore black, baggy pants with a tight fit from the calf, down, as white leg wraps wrapped around them, a style typical for professional martial artists to prevent the loose bottom of the pants from getting caught on anything during performance. And on his feet he wore traditional, black Jikatabi shoes, traditional Japanese shoes worn since the ancient times.

He acted so calm. Unphased by this predicament as I observed him without a single comprehension as to why I felt the way I did. I remarked how veiled he presented himself, and even though his eyes were uncovered I still couldn't seem to affix eye to eye, especially at this angle. To come to think of it, no one has. So his identity remains obscured. As for I, on the other hand, I was disappointingly apprehensive.

I was apprehensive and I hated it. 

"WELCOME TO THE KING OF IRON FIST TOURNAMENT!" The automated system announced. 

The fourth tournament to be exact. 

The ground jolted as the cages raised from the ground that surrounded Rei and I, enclosing us. The crowd was brought to their feet with rhapsody and anticipation by the scene that was coming into play as they all knew that when the cages rise, the battle begins, and the winner walks away with their life, and the loser, barely. 

_Any second, now..._

"RIVARNA VERSUS REI," the voice continued, "ROUND ONE." 

We took our stance. 

_Win or lose, it will all be worth it… Win or lose it will all be worth it… Win or lose it will all be worth it…_

"FIGHT!" 

_Ding, ding, ding!_

And the bell went off. 

A sudden feeling swept over me as each foot started hitting the ground in large, speedy strides, one swiftly after the other as if the sound of the bell had awoken my motives. 

Oh, I was prepared alright. 

But so was he. 

As quick as I was, as quick as the world knew I was, I was not quick enough. Not for him. I attempted to throw a punch with my dominant hand followed by a hook with my left. He managed to defend off both attacks, catching my dominant arm on the third attempt and then my left arm on the fourth. He occluded my 'punch, hook, hook, punch' combo that had always been reliable especially with my renowned speed and agility abilities. I raised my left leg and attempted to give a heavy blow to his face only for him to throw my hands away, catch my leg with a jerk and then forcefully hurl me two meters above the ground as I flew back in a semi curl. My legs and my arms frantically sought stability. He was very fast, in sync with all my attacks as if he knew my every move before they were even performed. As I fell closer to the ground I slammed my feet immediately, legs apart with my right foot behind the left, working against friction in order to regain my balance and return to my signature stance. The ideal of the fight was set and I knew from here on it was going to be a tough one.

He had already begun charging at me quicker than I had but I still had the chance to charge at him too and I took it, willing to meet him head-on rather than standing and waiting for the two of us to collide with the speed and power he would have managed to build, expanding his chances and reducing mine. In no time, we were attacking hit-after-hit-after-hit with various amount of individual moves as well as combos, and the crowd continued to watch so irrepressibly, enjoying what they thought was brought for their own entertainment, but if only they knew the truth behind The King of Iron Fist Tournament. They'd realize that their lives are also on the line, along with our own. They think we are scripted. They think we use special effects. They think we are fakes. But in reality, we are just as unaware of every participants' motives as they are, we are no WWE actors or actresses following scripts. Everything here, every fight that we perform, is a matter of survival, and I know soon enough the truth is going to be revealed with the way this tournament is going, becoming deadlier and deadlier every year since its first launch in 1993, and when it does the world will be thrown into havoc. I certainly believe the truth itself deserves to be known, but I also believe that it is safer for it remain hidden for the sake of humanity. I assume that the participants who are also aware of this "truth" agree, as none have ever spoken about it to the press, the media, or have tried to gain publicity from it. If you think about it, none of us are really here for pure fame or fortune, except, of course, Paul Phoenix. The fame and the fortune is just a bonus. Many of us have our very own purpose, a purpose so important to us that we are willing to put our life on the line. Some fighters want revenge. Some fighters want answers. Some fighters want to save another, but how can that be possible when we are all caught up by a certain mind set that dangerously drives us towards our goal? So when I tell you that this tournament is no joke, you better believe it. 

It had been two hours into our fight and I was coming to tire. All the previous amount of used energy seemed to be starting to take its toll and we were on our final round. The third round. Still, as exhausted as we were we were prepared for this knowing exactly what we were getting ourselves into. Out of the two tournaments I have taken part in, this fight has been the longest fight I have had yet. The only fight that has taken me to three rounds.

His actions spoke and he was ready to fight again. We charged at one another.

Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot.

One swiftly after the other, breathlessly.

White rays of light shining brighter than ever, almost blinding, as if the gates to heaven were opening.

We brought our right arms to a launch and clenched our fists into a tight ball of fury, preparing to land what seemed like our final blow.

The world suddenly slowed down, and the sound of the shrieking crowd was replaced with a never-ending ringing sound. 

_Crunch._

Vast pain shot through my ribs, to my tailbone and up my spine before I became numb like I was paralyzed. I screamed my first scream in a long time in agony with an unbearable pain that had suddenly been afflicted upon me and I knew what this had meant. As I felt myself fall helplessly to the ground I heard another swift cracking sound.

Perhaps another broken bone.

I don't know.

I was too numb to feel anything anymore.

The echoing of the sound went on for what seemed like forever, right up until the white rays of light I once saw started disappearing as darkness began to creep, almost as if it was consuming me, drowning me in a deep, deep sea of black.

As numb as I was I still managed to feel my body slam and slide across the ground, and I couldn't take it any longer.

I was exhausted.

I was angry.

I was frustrated.

I was hateful.

But most of all I was sad.

I was sad because, not only had I failed to succeed, but because I had been so blinded by the grief I still held, grief so intense that as my eyes were just about to cease its vision from the closing of my lids, I weakly, with all the remaining strength I had, I inhaled once more.

Once more, as I drew one last breath while he stood over my motionless body and stared down at me with an expression of… sympathy?

What I had realized in that moment however, was that the eyes that were staring at him, were the same exotic, gold eyes staring back at me.

And it had finally hit me.


End file.
